Mary sat silently on the bench in her garden, the evening air heavy with the scent of roses. Across from her, her neighbour Natalie—ever the cheerful one—grinned knowingly.
“Cheer up, love. You’ve got that look about you,” Natalie teased.
Mary sighed. “Just one of those days, I suppose.”
Natalie leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Well, I’ve got news to brighten your mood. Dr. Stevens retired, and they’ve sent a replacement—Dr. Oliver. Needs a place to stay for a bit. I told him he could take your spare rooms.”
Mary’s brows shot up. “You did *what*?”
“Come off it, Mary. That half of the house just sits there gathering dust since Emily moved to London. Might as well be of use.”
Before Mary could protest further, a tall, well-built man with kind eyes appeared at the gate. “Evening,” he said warmly, extending a hand. “Oliver Stevens.”
“Mary Walker.” His grip was firm, his smile easy. For a fleeting moment, she wondered—ridiculous, really. She was fifty, for heaven’s sake.
But as days passed, Oliver proved more than just a lodger. They took drives into town, saw films, shared stories over tea in the garden. The village tongues wagged—*What’s a handsome doctor like him doing with Mary? She’s older, for crying out loud.*
One evening, under the apple tree where her ex-husband had once promised her the world, Oliver took her hand. “Mary, marry me. I’ve never been surer of anything.”
Her breath caught. “Oliver, I’m four years your senior—”
“And I’ve never felt younger,” he countered, lips quirking. “Age doesn’t matter when you’ve found the right person.”
She said yes.
Three blissful years later, a familiar car pulled up. Out stepped Thomas—greyer, wearier. “Just passing through,” he muttered, eyes scanning the garden.
Mary folded her arms. “Thomas. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
His smile was thin. “Curiosity, I suppose. You look well. Still holding a grudge?”
She shook her head. “No tears, no waiting, no missing. That ship sailed.”
Thomas exhaled sharply. “Third marriage fell apart. Karma, I reckon.” His voice, always so calm, cracked just once. “Should’ve never left.”
She softened, but only just. “We both moved on.”
Nodding, he turned to go. “Glad you’re happy, Mary. Truly.”
As his car vanished down the lane, she felt it—not anger, not regret. Just pity. And then Oliver’s arms wrapped around her, and she remembered: some endings are beginnings in disguise.
